


Study Sessions

by Mememachine129



Category: IT (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Angst, Bi Richie, Bill's clueless, Camping, Dead Georgie Denbrough, Depression, F/M, Fluff, High School AU, M/M, Mental Abuse, Multi, Polyamory, Studying, demisexual eddie, g a y Stan, sonia being a bitch, stan has ocd
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-17
Updated: 2018-04-17
Packaged: 2019-04-19 01:47:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14226435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mememachine129/pseuds/Mememachine129
Summary: "DO YOU EVER STUDY?""DEPENDS IF YOU'RE THERE OR NOT, STANNY BOY.""JESUS- BEEP BEEP, RICH!"Where Stan and Richie have history, and Eddie's stuck in the middle of an old friendship and a new one.ORWhere three boy's are shoved into a class they all hate, and, somehow, end up as "study buddies"





	Study Sessions

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! So this is basically a high school IT au. I fucking love the idea of streddie (stozier v. reddie? how bout streddie?), and there's next to no fanfics about it, so I've decided to try this shit out! 
> 
> Quick warning:  
> This story will have mentions and descriptions of depression, anxiety, OCD, ADHD, and possibly more. There will also be potentially triggering topics such as suicidal thoughts and mentions of mental abuse. Though most of this will be fluff, please take your own heath in account
> 
> I have a cast in mind, but I cant figure out how to link it. I'll add it once I upload it to my tumblr (streddiesworld)

**_(_ ** _ chapter one  _ **_)_ **

**_DOG DAYS_ **

 

**_THE LOUD AND_ ** rhythmic  _ click, click, click _ of the pale white clock was the only thing keeping the tired high schoolers sane. Saying that, it was also the object driving them  _ in _ sane. The clock read 10:56, but everyone in the class knew it was actually 10:54, as last year one of the school’s trouble makers (probably Richie “Trashmouth” Tozier) had broken in and changed all the clocks in the school to be two minutes later. It was subtle enough for none of the teachers to notice (or care), but for the student body to pass the information around like wildfire.

       The student’s breaths morphed together, creating a hot and awkward atmosphere that would last for the next half hour. The professor, a middle aged man with a beer gut, was currently talking about the destructive nature of the government ( _ wasn't this Sculpture 101?) _ . One of the many pipes above them dripped, what they hoped was, water onto the front table.  Each tap of the “water” was another second of torture for the class and another layer of grime on the ancient tables.

       In the front of the room, wearing a bored look and a pair of khakis, sat the ever unfamous Stanley Uris. The boy who went through three notebooks a class from taking notes and had an unhealthy obsession with birds. Everyone ignored him, to focused on sleeping or the ticking clock on the wall. He liked it that way.  _ Too much attention was a recipe for disaster, _ his father’s voice told him.

       Stanley was the type of person that you label a dork as you walk past him in the hall; a passing thought that would get shoved in the same bin as  _ do your laundry _ . You’d never see him without a button down and a pair of khakis, his pair of Doc Martin’s so clean it looked like they were made that morning. His thin, but perky nose housed no glasses (though he probably needed them considering how often his nose was in a book). His eyes were round, but thinned to make an almond shape. Irises like oak in the fall, the golden leaves becoming the boy’s long eyelashes. Ringlets made of sun drops were the only original thing about him- at least in his opinion.

       With a blink the click of the clock was interrupted by the over dramatic entrance of the forsaid troublemaker; Richie Tozier. The boy sprinted in, slamming the door with a nervous laugh as 40 curious and two annoyed stares met his thick coke-bottle glasses

       “Hey, Mr Reed, you wouldn't mind if I slipped into the back, would ya’?” his husky voice wasn't as persuasive as usual, the heavy breathing deteriorating his skill. He flashed his famous smile, his buck teeth on display for the class. It seemed to work, though, as the easy going teacher rolled his eyes and gestured to the seat next to Stan. Richie let out a relieved breath and slid (literally) into the seat. Turning his head away from the door window, he met Stan’s blown eyes, “Hey, Staniel, long time no see!”

       Stan huffed, turning to the front abruptly. His hand, which was previously tapping out a rhythmic pattern (which he of course finished), started to fill up his page with whatever the teacher was going on about now. His other hand started another rhythm before he spoke to the grinning boy, “For the last time,  _ Trashmouth _ , that's not my name.”

       “That's not what your mom said last night,” he retorted with a smirk. He took a glance at the door again, before gaining interest in the opposite wall as a shadow passed.

       Stanley made note of the behavior, squinting at the boy beside him, “What's it this time? Raid the girls bathroom, pants the principle, ” he raised his eyebrow before looking back at the front.

       Richie faked a hurt look, “What makes you think I did anything bad! Maybe I'm just visiting an old pal!” he smiled his crooked smile that somehow stopped his expulsions.

       Stanley gave the boy one of his famous, ‘ _ are you sure about that? _ ’ looks. Well, it was famous to those he talked with, at least. “The principle outside would say otherwise.”

       The boy’s coke-bottle glasses slid off his nose in his attempt to hide under the gray table. A choked giggle from above him made him glance upwards, meeting Stan’s smirk. He sighed, getting back on his seat with a glare, “You're a real asshole, you know that?”

       Stan did his choked giggle once more, showing the trashmouth that, yes, he did in fact know that. Richie looked over at the strange boy beside him. With his wide lensed glasses resting on the floor below him, the world was a mess of colored blurs. Though he knew the face Stan made. His mind had implanted every wrinkle, every  _ movement _ down to the very second. A familiar clench in his gut startled him as he squinted, hoping his horrible slight would focus enough for him to get a glance at Stan’s pearly whites. The small wish that he had worn contacts pushed through his mind.

       Stan took a breath, smiling at the boy in front of him as the laughter died on his lips. He looked him up and down, taking him in for the first time. Richie Tozier. The boy who wore ripped jeans with a tacky Hawaiian shirt. The boy with ivory skin that danced with freckles. The boy with a crooked smile and a laugh that could light up even the darkest nights. He still carried the trashmouth label on his back in the form of a leather jacket with an embroidered “TRASHMOUTH” on the back (always with a Hawaiian shirt underneath it).

       “Mr. Uris,” The smooth, yet sharp voice of Mr. Reed silenced the sun-kissed boy’s laughter for good, “Let's at least pretend to be listening, yes?” Stan nodded obediently, giving Richie a side glare when he heard a snicker, “You too, Mr. Tozier. You're a guest that I can always kick out.”

       Richie nodded, clearing his throat, “Yes, thanks again, du- sir.” he stopped himself, sending him a smile.

       Mr. Reed nodded before going back to his lecture ( _ which, at this point, was more of a rant than anything else _ ). Stan looked over to see Richie already staring, “You actually gonna tell me what you did or should I just hear from hallway gossip in a couple hours.”

       Richie smirked, but his long fingers scraping across his neck told Stan he was nervous. The Tozier boy was easy to read once one payed attention, “Depends.” he started with a shrug, “Are you a tattler, Stanny boy?”

       Stan’s oak eyes rolled, “What are we, five? Fucking spill, Rich.” He easily fell into the familiar rhythm, not thinking about anything except that raven haired boy in front of him.

       “Fine, fine!” he held up his hands lazily, “But if I ‘ear a lick’ao gossip from ye’, ‘ll call y’er parents!” he slipped into a strange accent, one that was a mix of an old woman and his southern cop. Stan gave him  _ the look _ . Richie raised his eyebrows and ran this tongue across his front teeth, “Well, I may have programmed Bowers radio to only play Girls Just Wanna Have Fun at top volume.”

       Stan tried to keep his expression stern as he stared the trashmouth down, but the boys cheeky grin was infectious. A small snicker sounded through Stan’s nose, making Richie smile even wider. He knew how amazing it was to hear Stan laugh, and being the cause of it just made it even sweeter. Stan raised his eyebrows incredulously, “How are you even  _ alive _ ?”

       Richie swatted off the question, “Surely you've asked that enough times to know that I'm indi-fucking-structable, Stan.”

       Stan’s smile faltered, the reality of the situation crashing down around him. Him and Richie weren't friends. Not after…, “Yeah…” he whispered, looking away.

       Richie, too focused on the table in front of him, missed Stan’s abrupt mood change. He smiled, a hopeful look in his eye, “I missed this… seeing you smile and laugh.” he paused, swallowing a joke, “I missed the way things used to be...”

       Stan stayed silent, the tap of his fingers against the gray tabel echoing through the, actually very loud, room, “We can't-” Stan looked up to meet Richie’s eyes, but the burning flames of a blonde bilbo met his instead. Anything that Stan was going to say disappeared, taken by the furious expression of the town bully, “Run.”

       Richie looked up, confused, “What? Speak up, Staniel, me old ears can't-”

       “FUCKING RUN, RICH.” he screamed, silencing the classroom. He pushed the boy out of his seat, gesturing toward the emergency exit in one frantic movement. Mr Reed, looking very affronted, watched in horror as Bowers stalked toward his classroom. He quietly walked to his desk and sat down. Stan juded his hand out, pointing at the metal door furiously as his classmates backed against the wall.

       Richie didn't have to be told twice as the bang of the door and the unmistakable echo of Girls Just Wanna Have Fun misted into the classroom. The tall, buff, and stupid Henry Bowers walked into the classroom, steam almost streaming from his red ears.

       “YOU'RE DEAD, TOZIER, DEAD!” He fumed, sprinting after the lanky boy. Richie sped out of the classroom, pushing open the emergency exit and sprinting toward the student lot. Stan swore that he saw Bowers red sports car tipped over with, not one, but three speakers taped to the sides, all blasting the same annoying song. The door closed before he got a proper look, but he knew Richie got away. He always got away.

       Even when Stan wanted him to stay.

 

* * *

 

 

 

**_STAN’S BROWN DOC MARTENS_** padded quietly against the hall floor, squeaking slightly with each step. Beside him stood his best friend; Bill Denbrough. Bill was a kind soul (all of Stan’s friends were), always to focused on others to realize his own problems. The boy had dark red hair in a swish over his left eye, the rest cut to only an inch off his face. He had brilliant blue eyes and a smile that sent everyone in the room at ease. His demeanor was soft, yet strong. His eyes, the shape of two strawberries, carried a kindness that he lent to anyone who met them. Bill was the type to suck you in and make you never want to leave his warm embrace.

       It was no wonder that Stan fell in love with him.

       ‘Well,’ Stan reasoned, ‘We all fell in love with him at one point. Mike, Ben, they agreed that he's just that person that makes people throw gender away!’

       But Stan’s love was different  ( _ no, not love. he wasn't fucking gay _ ). It didn't fade, only getting stronger with every second he was with the boy. Bill talked slowly, his harmonic voice having little stumbles after years of practice. When he was younger, the Denbrough boy could barely get through one sentence without repeating a consonant. Even then, his voice was magnetic.

       Stan let Bill talk, watching him go on about the substitute that walked out in the middle of class to smoke a cigarette. He wasn't listening, though, to focused on the situation that just passed. He waited for Bill to pause for a couple seconds before tapping his arm. Bill’s attention immediately diverted to the boy beside him.

       Stan cleared his throat, slightly nervous, “Richie talked to me during Sculpture.”

       Out of all the reactions that Bill could have, he didn't expect to be pulled into an empty classroom with a startled gasp. Bill looked to Stanley wide eyed, shock covering his thin face, “Ruh-Richie talked to you! I d-d-didn't know you h-had any classes with him.”

       Stan shrugged at Bill’s words, playing with the hanging hand sanitizer on his messenger bag, “I don't. He just kinda…” he stopped, amusement in his hazel eyes as the memory popped into his mind, “Ran in.”

       Stan watched as Bill bit his lip (stop staring), his eyes nervous as he bore into the Uris boy, “What did you t-talk about?”

       “Just random stuff,” Stan spotted the look in Bill’s eyes, the unsaid question clear as day, “Nothing about  _ that _ .”

       The red head raised his eyebrow, “So… are you guys f-friends ag-again or-”

       Stan straightened up, “We just talked, Bill, nothing more.” he watched kids file into the classroom, the shrill warning bell echoing through the outside hallway, “The day I'm friends with that  _ fucker _ is the day pigs fly outta my ass.”

       Stan walked out of the classroom with a huff, immensely regretting ever telling Bill at all. But he knew he had too. If Stan didn't have Bill Denbrough, then he might really consider his mothers proposition for settling for a  _ nice jewish girl _ .

 

* * *

  
  


**_EDWARD KASPBRAK HEAVED_ ** a labored breath, the rough ground below him sliding with his sneakers. Sweat clung to his forehead in tiny waterfalls, each one lining his stress-lines. Each crease of his tan skin burned from the beating sun. The dust around him obstructed any view of what was ahead of him, but pure instinct pushed him toward his goal. Each step was agonisingly slow, but the familiar feel of hard porcelain filled his adrenaline pumped brain with relief.

       A cheer from outside his vision and the unmistakable sound of a glove hitting sand interrupted the previous silence of the game. Hands were thrown onto his back, rough and dirty. He ignored the clenching of his heart as he finally saw the dirt that covered not only his, but his teammates uniforms, instead smiling and brushing off their compliments.

       Baseball was always something that seemed utterly repulsive to the 16 year old. A dozen boys in sweaty uniforms running in the blistering heat? Who in their right mind would find that fun? Well, apparently Eddie. The boy had been forced into the program on an seventh grade dare. Now, almost four years later, he spent his second period out in the field, getting watched by parents who didn't have anything better to do.

       “Hey, Kaspbrak!” Eddie’s eyes followed the sound, getting greeted by Tommy Calsco’s familiar smirk, “You wanna skip and catch the new movie at the Aladdin?” The blond boy raised an eyebrow, daring him to join him on his rule breaking escapade.

       Eddie rolled his eyes, “You see, Tommy, unlike your mom, my mom would have a fucking aneurysm if she found out I skipped.” he ignored the looks of shock on his teammates faces at his jab, to focused on the stands above to care about the fuck boy, “It's a no from me.”

       Tommy huffed, grabbing one of the cheerleader’s arms and dragging her toward the parking lot where they would, presumably, make out. Eddie wondered, for just a moment, if he should convince the boy to stay, but the effort of caring drove him from the idea.

       His wide eyes raked the stands once more, hoping that just  _ once _ she'd show up. His eyes met awkward parents, but the dominant brown eyes of his mother were nowhere to be found. He grimaced, feeling the dirt on his skin crawl into his bones, sickness and death seeping into his veins. God, he needed a shower.

       His first thought was the school showers, but that was quickly shoved away. There was absolutely no fucking way he was going to clean himself in that bacteria fest. Who knew what students did in there! From the rumors he'd heard, it wasn't anything good. He shuttered at the thought. With a nod to his coach, he jogged to the parking lot.

       A quick shower couldn't hurt, right?

       He looked around, hoping to spot one of the usual skippers, so he could hitch a ride, but was surprised at the vacant lot. He itched his arm, wondering how many particles had already gone into his bloodstream. He took of his cap, cringing as the cold nipped at his sweat covered head. He jogged to the bike rack and jumped onto his blue “mini car”, as his trashmouth of a friend called it. He chuckled, allowing his resolve to crumble  as the thought of what the boy would say to  _ this _ . He could imagine his voice easily, his voice resounding a, 'Jesus, Eds! You takin' a page from old Tommy's book or are ya just feelin' horny? I get it! You're mom's an irresistible woman!", broken by chorts. Eddie's shrill voice followed with a, "That's fucking disgusting!" and an melodramatic gag. 

       The image gave him a few moments of needed clarity, his mind rushing through possible excuses to tell his teachers ( _ he was to far to turn back now, so why not? _ ). Wonderful examples such as 'car caught on fire' ( _ he didn't have a car _ ), 'my locker got jammed' ( _ Derry High, the cheap fucks they were, refused to spend money on extra lockers, so most of the school didn't have them _ ), and 'I fell in a toliet' rushed to the forefront of his mind. He pushed them back, pushing himself further into a panic when no more ideas came up. He was almost ready to admit defeat and find the nearest bathroom, when a familiar beep reached his wind-blown ears. 

       He looked down, his eyes flling on the cute digital watch his mother had gotten him for his birthday, what, six years ago now? It was loaded with alarms, each one to remind him to take his pills on time-

       Oh wait

_ His pills! _

       He released his hand from the bar to face palm, but only ended up (almost) swerving into a parked car. After that he kept his hands clutched to the bars, the excuse running through his head like a mantra.

       The rest of the ride home wasn't quite as pleasant, as the voice in his head ( _ that sounded suspiciously like his mothers _ ) listed every way he could get in trouble, how he could die from it, and how it would end up burning down the school. He breathed in relief at the sight of his house - thankfully not burned to a crisp. Slowing his wheels, he turned into the driveway, his body jerking as the bike jumped onto the sidewalk.

       The familiar smell of disinfectant and window cleaner filled his nostrils, making his nose itch and his brain have the overwhelming desire to leave. He swore his mother had created the seant just to make him feel dirty everywhere else. He took off his sneakers in a hurry, deciding to think about the sand that coated them after his shower. He chucked his baseball cap on the counter with a  _ smack _ and opened the fridge.

       “Eddie-Bear? What are you doing home this early?”

_Oh_ _fuck_.

       Eddie felt himself go rigid, the orange falling from his fingers onto the cold floor. Today was Tuesday.  _ Tuesday _ . How could he be so stupid!

       He turned quickly, almost falling over from the force, his mouth quirked into its usual fakeness. “Hey, mommy,” his voice was quiet, missing its usual shrill quality. His hands clutched each other behind his back, a small form of comfort to combat the onslaught of sudden fear and adrenaline. Eyes wide and skin sweat soaked, he rattled off a question he already knew the answer too, desperate to fill the silence, “What are you doing home this early?”

       Sonia Kaspbrak was a large and terrifying force of motherly rage. With her wide hips, strong shoulders, and pertinent bitch face ( _ ‘sept when she was lookin’ at her “eddie-bear” _ ), no one wanted to anger that raging ball of untapped rage. Despite her intimidating stance, her face was pig like. Well, her entire demeanor was pig like. With a too-perky nose, wide eyes with deep bags, and lips so thin they could slide through America’s TSA unchallenged, she looked like a reincarnation of El Capone.

       Sonia raised one of her over-plucked eyebrows in question, her hands falling neatly onto her burly hips, “It's Tuesday, honey. You know I always have my lunch at home on Tuesdays.” she stated every sentence as indisputable, her voice sharp, but a tinge of sweetness she only reserved for her son coating the ugly sound.

       “O-Oh, yeah.” Eddie visibly gulped, feeling his mother's trained eyes checking him for any injuries. From the glint, he figured she found her prize.

       “Oh, Eddie-Bear,” she whined, walking over to prune over him, “You look sick! All that sweat - Lord, baby you must be in so much pain! Why don't I take you too-”

       “Oh no, it's okay, mommy.” Eddie held out his hands, his short stature ducking under his mother's outstretched arms, “I was just playing with the team, that's all.” He made a beeline for the staircase, hoping he could climb up before his mother had a chance to respond. No such luck.

       “Eddie-Bear…” he froze at his mother's cold tone. A shiver ran up his spine. Fuck. “You weren't playing baseball again, were you?”

       “No, no, Mommy I just-”

       He turned around, walking back with a pit in his chest. He knew what she was doing. It's what she always did. But he couldn't stop it.

       Eddie felt the pit dig deeper, guilt pooling into his stomach, as he watched his mother sniffle. Her lip wobbled, her eyes already leaking fake tears, “I thought we agreed to stop. You could get so hurt, baby! That dirt could kick up your asthma and none of those  _ mongrels _ know how to help you!” she smiled sweetly, kneeling to reach Eddie’s height, “Why don't you stay home, baby, then I can take care of you! You know it's best if you just stay home. I can clean you up and make you all better!”

      The Kaspbrak boy's eyes shook, his hands shaking wildly at his sides. He desperately searched his mind, trying to find some way to explain to Sonia what  he needed to stay. How he felt so alive when he ran, he feeling of being needed trailing him with every turn. How the crack of a bat send a shiver of excitement down his spine, his body already preparing the adrenaline that would soon be coursing through his body.

       But his brain seemed to shut down when he met his mother's eyes. Sonia searched his own, and he could see her face crunch up in anger and sadness, “Unless… you don't want my help.” She stood up, grabbing one of the many boxes of tissues. Eddie watched with horror as a sob lacerated through his mother's body, a shiver vibrating through his spine at the sound. He tried to comfort his mother as she bawled, but her wails formed words the stung, “You can't leave me! You need me for so much! Who'll give you your pills? Take you to the doctor?  _ Who will love you _ ?” her wails were desperate, but calculated. Every sentence has been said before, thousands upon thousands of times.

       And every time Eddie fell for it.

       “I'm sorry, Mommy!” he cried, clutching her arm like a bereaved child, “I do need you! I'll-I'll-” he searched for what he must've done to cause her to cry, but found that nothing came up.

       Sonia ignored his silence, clutching him in a bone crushing hug and sobbing into his shoulder. Mutters of  _ never leave me _ and  _ you couldn't live without me _ floated between the sobs. His toes clenched as he felt his shirt stick to his skin, becoming aware of the sweat that coated his skin before he could blink. He felt so… filthy.

       He let his mother wail into his chest as he stood stiff, every bone ridged as the feeling of bugs crawling up his mind captivated his mind. He let her wails become sniffles and her sobs become shakes. Slowly, but surely, she let him go. As soon as her bear-like grip on him lessened, he ran.

       “I gotta go take a shower, Mommy. Love you!” he rushed up the stairs before she could respond. He could faintly hear her call him, but he was too focused on his shaking hands to be concerned.

       Why am I shaking? Am I sick? Has the dirt gone into my bloodstream and gone to ny heart, slowing it down until I die painfully? Or maybe one of my teammates has AIDS and when I slid across the base it infected me and I'm slowly going to lose blood flow until all I am is a mess of stiff cotton-

       Eddie didn't realize he was crying until his sobbing form stood in front of him. The mirror was immaculately clean, so every detail was on display for his wet irises. He kinda wished, for once, that it was dirty.

       Eddie was delicate. His body frail and skinny, muscles barely present on his freckled skin. His eyes were wide and innocent, framed by bushy brown eyebrows and a thin nose. Lips thick and always puckered, swollen from being constantly chewed on. God, he looked like a fucking  _ doll _ .

       Well, not completely. While his body might be frail and his skin tan from months in the sun, he had two things that weren't the “perfect pursona” his mother loved to discuss. His hair and his freckles.

       His hair, much to his mother's discussed, had taken an almost messy quality. Curls upon curls weaved together to create a map of disaster. His mother had cut it short for the first decade and a half of his life, but recently he had started to grow it out. Nothing to bad, just a little past his ears, but it was enough to make him feel proud.

       His freckles were something he didn't like quiet as much. He found them to be annoying, just a dance of imperfections across his face. He could tolerate them there, but it was everywhere  _ else _ that he found annoying. The little dark dots danced everywhere; his legs, arms, torso, hell, even his  _ feet _ ! The things were unending. Like stars, he wished that they could all just  _ explode _ .

       He methodically took off his uniform, brushing it into a pile next to the tub. He turned on the tap, checking the temperature before stepping into the lukewarm water. He let heat tear away at the dirt, his nails scraping along with the droplets. Patches of red grew across his arms and chest, only growing as the water grew cold. Spuds of soup washed down the drain, only accompanied by specks of torn skin. Finally, he placed his foot on the edge of the tub and started to scrub at his hairless legs.

       A sharp sting as his hand graced his inner calf made him hiss. After frantically looking at the door to make sure his mother didn't hear him, he inspected the spot. To his horror, a pink scrap had nessled it self a little below his knee, skin flakes and all.

       He quickly stumbled out of the shower, tripping over the curtain in his attempt to get out. He lunged for the cabinet, ransacking it in a hope of finding the black bottle. He let out a relieved sigh as the blue hydrogen peroxide met his brown eyes. Without missing a beat, Eddie popped open the cap and stuck his leg in the one part of the tub that the water didn't reach, dousing the wound with the liquid without a second thought.

       He didn't even wince at the pain. In fact, he relaxed, shoulders sagging as the last thought of germs was pushed away. With sagging shoulders, he wiped the bottle with a clorox wipe and put everything away, turning off the tap ( _ which was now just spraying cold water. oops _ ) with a flick.

       As he walked into his room, he couldn't help but wish that his covers were a little bit ruffled, or that there were a couple t-shirts litting the floor, or that something was just a little less perfect. Because, as hard as he tries, he wasn't perfect, and he just wished his life reflected that.

 

* * *

  
  


**_THE CHILLY SEPTEMBER_ ** air had an aura of innocents. Each creek of a swing set and giggle of a child brought the stormy day into the sunny mood the kids never seemed to let go of. The stomping of feet and rattle of unsecured metal echoed through the playground. It was nice, filled with energy that felt so  _ pure. _

       All that was in the back of Richie’s mind as the taste of nicotine fell onto his tongue. The normally light air became heavy as the smoke filled his lungs, seemly seeping into every rivet of his esophagus. He let the weight stay, enjoying the feeling of pure ecstasy as his brain filled with fire. The smoke filled the air, twisting into gray wisps as the wind blew it away from the happy sounds of the nearby children. Richie watched it taint the innocent air with a smile.

       An airy chuckle from the red head next to caught his eye, dragging the brown pools from the hypnotising smoke. He raised an eyebrow, looking over the girl with a familiar smirk, “Jesus, Beaver-lee, what have you  _ deduced _ now?”

       The aforementioned girl chuckled again, sending her bright smile toward the waiting trashmouth, “Well,” she started, her voice thick with amusement, “The aura you're presenting today is a solid ‘I fucked up but in the best way possible’ kinda vibe.”

       Richie let put a blunt laugh, quick and edgy, and huffed another puff of the addiction-filled smoke, “Always to the point, huh Bevvie.”

       Beverly Marsh turned toward her friend with a soft smile, stubbing the cigarette against the stone wall and flicking the death-stick over the ledge of the building. Her many bracelets clicked together as she walked closer, leaning against the boy without having to ask. She smiled as he lent into her touch, “Come on, Rich, you can't keep ignoring this.”

       The boy's raven hair tangled as another gust of wind blew any trace of the death stick from the roof. He felt Bev’s soft fingers trace little designs into his curls, and he smiled. He words sunk into his brain, but nothing told him how to respond. He wished for a familiar blond in that moment, wanting the boy's sage words to send him away from a quip. Maybe it was the thought of the boy carried the sentence out.

       “I talked to him this morning.” he muttered, watching the ant-like humans run around the cheap castle the elementary school had bought last spring.

       He felt Beverly freeze her movements before she answered, a casual, but worried sound, “You're gonna need to specify, babe.”

       “Stanley... I talked to Stanley.”

       It almost seemed like the kids below had stopped playing, submerging themselves in a silence that left every soul breathless. Although the confession sounded forced, Richie felt relief fill his system. He hadn't stopped thinking about the encounter since it had happened (though there were a few minutes where Bowers had overcrowded his anxiety with fear). He couldn't believe he had let himself get so… sentimental.

       Beverley’s hands rested on his head now, tucking the boy as close to her as she could get him. Richie watched her pick at the hem of her floral sundress with calm interest. It was beyond him how the short haired girl could wear a dress this close to winter, but he figured he was one to talk, considering he was only wearing a leather jacket over his hawaiian shirt.

       Beverly signed, leaning her head back to look the smoking boy in the eye. He refused to meet her sparkling blue. She bit her lip, unsure how to approach the trashmouth. She fiddled with her brown belt as she spoke, “Did… did you-...”, she drifted off, letting the Tozier boy fill in the question with his overactive mind.

       Richie shrugged, not quite knowing the answer himself. They almost did. They were so close. For the first time in a year he was going to get a straight answer out of the impenetrable Stanley Uris and Bowers had to come and fuck it up. Oh, who was he kidding.

       He's the one who fucked it up.

       Richie let out a breath, his eyes burning brighter than his throat as he spoke. “I was telling him what you said. About how I wanted to, y'know, be friends again?” he felt his throat close instinctively around the sentence, but he continued, “He- gosh I was stupid. Fucking Bowers. Don't even know if I'm angry the bastard showed up.”

       Bev ran her fingers through Richie’s hair (abit with some difficulty due to her short stature), and pushed the boy's head into his shoulder. He put up no resistance, putting the cigarette in the corner of his mouth as the two slid down the cold brick. Bev soothingly rubbed his shoulder, leaning on his head like a mother to a child. Richie felt his heart rate slow, the secure feeling of the redhead’s boney shoulder a strange comfort.

       Beverly always had that effect on Richie. She always knew exactly what the boy needed without having to ask; it was magical. Sometimes he questioned where he would be without his smoke buddy, but he always had to stop himself before he got to far. The fact was; Beverly was one of the only reasons Richie hadn't collapsed that fateful day more than a year ago.

       A dry chuckle left Richie’s lips as Bev pulled away the still-lit cigarette, pushing it into her mouth. Richie knew by the subtle rise and fall of her shoulders that she'd taken a hit. He couldn't find it in himself to care.

       “Never regret what you can't change, Rich.” Richie hung onto the girl's words as the rose with the wispy gray, “But change what you fucking can, ‘cus you're gonna regret it if you don't.”

       The wispy smoke faded, molding into the clouds with the Marsh girl's advice. When Richie went out to clutch the words, hoping to catch them in his stringy fingers, he felt the gray weave through his calloused skin into the stormy horizon.  _ Far away from his reach. _

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> 5706 words... holy sHIT bro. 
> 
> I was supposed to stop at 3000, but fuck me, I guess!
> 
> I hope you like it so far! 
> 
> (also this is on wattpad to, if that has any interest to you...)


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